Think you know true fear? You don't.
Think you've read the most chilling book? Not even close.
Think you can't be shocked? Good luck!
Maybe you're ready for the most truly frightening reading experience of your life, the World Fantasy Award-winning novel that's been terrifying readers for over a decade.
Song of Kali.
|Publisher:||Tom Doherty Associates|
|Edition description:||First Edition|
|Product dimensions:||5.41(w) x 8.33(h) x 0.90(d)|
About the Author
Dan Simmons is a recipient of numerous major international awards, including the Hugo Award, World Fantasy Awards, Bram Stoker Awards, and the Shirley Jackson Award. He is widely considered to be one of the premier multiple-genre fiction writers in the world. His novels include the New York Times bestseller The Terror, Drood, and Black Hills. He lives along the Front Range in Colorado and has never grown tired of the views.
Read an Excerpt
Song of Kali
By Simmons, Dan
Tor BooksCopyright © 1998 Simmons, Dan
All right reserved.
"Today everything happens in Calcutta...
Who should I blame?"
"Don't go, Bobby," said my friend. "It's not worth it."
It was June of 1977, and I had come down to New York from New Hampshire in order to finalize the details of the Calcutta trip with my editor at Harper's. Afterward I decided to drop in to see my friend Abe Bronstein. The modest uptown office building that housed our little literary magazine, Other Voices, looked less than impressive after several hours of looking down on Madison Avenue from the rarefied heights of the suites at Harper's.
Abe was in his cluttered office, alone, working on the autumn issue of Voices. The windows were open, but the air in the room was as stale and moist as the dead cigar that Abe was chewing on. "Don't go to Calcutta, Bobby," Abe said again. "Let someone else do it."
"Abe, it's all set," I said. "We're leaving next week." I hesitated a moment. "They're paying very well and covering all expenses," I added.
"Hnnn," said Abe. He shifted the cigar to the other side of his mouth and frowned at a stack of manuscripts in front of him. From looking at this sweaty, disheveled little man--more the picture of an overworked bookie than anything else--one would never have guessed that he edited one of the more respected "little magazines" in the country. In 1977, OtherVoices hadn't eclipsed the old Kenyon Review or caused The Hudson Review undue worry about competition, but we were getting our quarterly issues out to subscribers; five stories that had first appeared in Voices had been chosen for the O'Henry Award anthologies; and Joyce Carol Oates had donated a story to our tenth-anniversary issue. At various times I had been Other Voices assistant editor, poetry editor, and unpaid proofreader. Now, after a year off to think and write in the New Hampshire hills and with a newly issued book of verse to my credit, I was merely a valued contributor. But I still thought of Voices as our magazine. And I still thought of Abe Bronstein as a close friend.
"Why the hell are they sending you, Bobby?" asked Abe. "Why doesn't Harper's send one of its big guns if this is so important that they're going to cover expenses?"
Abe had a point. Not many people had heard of Robert C. Luczak in 1977, despite the fact that Winter Spirits had received half a column of review in the Times. Still, I hoped that what people--especially the few hundred people who counted--had heard was promising. "Harper's thought of me because of that piece I did in Voices last year," I said. "You know, the one on Bengali poetry. You said I spent too much time on Rabindranath Tagore."
"Yeah, I remember," said Abe. "I'm surprised that those clowns at Harper's knew who Tagore was."
"Chet Morrow called me," I said. "He said that he had been impressed with the piece." I neglected to tell Abe that Morrow had forgotten Tagore's name.
"Chet Morrow?" grunted Abe. "Isn't he busy doing novelizations of TV series?"
"He's filling in as temporary assistant editor at Harper's," I said. "He wants the Calcutta article in by the October issue."
Abe shook his head. "What about Amrita and little Elizabeth Regina..."
"Victoria," I said. Abe knew the baby's name. When I had first told him the name we'd chosen for our daughter, Abe had suggested that it was a pretty damn Waspy title for the offspring of an Indian princess and a Chicago pollock. The man was the epitome of sensitivity. Abe, although well over fifty, still lived with his mother in Bronxville. He was totally absorbed in putting out Voices and seemed indifferent to anything or anyone that didn't directly apply to that end. One winter the heat had gone out in the office, and he had spent the better part of January here working in his wool coat before getting around to having it fixed. Most of Abe's interactions with people these days tended to be over the phone or through letters, but that didn't make the tone of his comments any less acerbic. I began to see why no one had taken my place as either assistant editor or poetry editor. "Her name's Victoria," I said again.
"Whatever. How does Amrita feel about you going off and deserting her and the kid? How old's the baby, anyway? Couple months?"
"Seven months old," I said.
"Lousy time to go off to India and leave them," said Abe.
"Amrita's going too," I said. "And Victoria. I convinced Morrow that Amrita could translate the Bengali for me." This was not quite the truth. It had been Morrow who suggested that Amrita go with me. In fact, it was probably Amrita's name that had gotten me the assignment. Harper's had contacted three authorities on Bengali literature, two of them Indian writers living in the States, before calling me. All three had turned down the assignment, but the last man they contacted had mentioned Amrita--despite her field being mathematics, not writing--and Morrow had followed up on it. "She does speak Bengali, doesn't she?" Morrow had asked over the phone. "Sure," I'd said. Actually, Amita spoke Hindi, Marathi, Tamil, and a little Punjabi as well as German, Russian, and English, but not Bengali. Close enough, I'd thought.
"Amrita wants to go?" asked Abe.
"She's looking forward to it," I said. "She hasn't been back to India since her father moved the family to England when she was seven. She's also looking forward to our spending some time in London on the way to India so her parents can meet Victoria." This last part was true. Amrita had not wanted to go to Calcutta with the baby until I convinced her that it was important to my career. The stopover in London had been the deciding factor for her.
"Okay," grunted Abe. "Go to Calcutta." His tone of voice let me know precisely what he thought of the idea.
"Tell me why you don't want me to," I said.
"Later," said Abe. "Right now tell me about this Das thing Morrow's talking about. And I'd like to know why you want me to save half of next spring's issue of Voices for more Das stuff. I hate reprints, and there can't be ten lines of his verse that hasn't been printed and reprinted ad nauseum."
"Das, yes," I said. "But not reprints. New things."
"Tell me," said Abe.
I told him.
* * *
"I'm going to Calcutta to find the poet M. Das," I said. "Find him, talk to him, and bring back some samples of his new work for publication."
Abe stared at me. "Uh-uh," he said. "No way. M. Das is dead. He died six or seven years ago. In 1970, I think."
"July of 1969," I said. I could not keep a trace of smugness out of my voice. "He disappeared in July of 1969 while on his way back from his father's funeral, cremation actually, in a village in East Pakistan--Bangladesh now--and everyone assumed he was murdered."
"Yeah, I remember," said Abe. "I stayed with you and Amrita for a couple of days in your Boston apartment when the New England Poets' Alliance held that commemorative reading for him. You read some of Tagore's stuff, and excerpts from Das's epic poems about what'shername, the nun--Mother Teresa."
"And two of my Chicago Cycle pieces were dedicated to him," I said. "But I guess we were all a bit premature. Das seems to have resurfaced in Calcutta, or at least some of his new poetry and correspondence has. Harper's got some samples through an agency they work with there, and people who knew Das say that he definitely wrote these new things. But nobody's seen the man himself. Harper's wants me to try to get some of his new work, but the slant of the article is going to be 'The Search for M. Das,' that kind of crap. Now here's the good news. Harper's gets first refusal on any of the poetry I get rights to, but we can print the rest in Other Voices."
"Sloppy seconds," grumbled Abe and chewed on his cigar. This was the kind of enthusiastic gratitude I'd grown used to during my years with Bronstein. I said nothing, and eventually he spoke again. "So where the hell's Das been for eight years, Bobby?"
I shrugged and tossed him a photocopied page that Morrow had given me. Abe inspected it, held it at arm's length, turned it sideways like a centerfold, and tossed it back. "I give up," he said. "What the shit is it?"
"That's the fragment of a new poem that Das is supposed to have written within the past couple of years."
"What's it in, Hindi?"
"No, Sanskrit and Bengali, mostly. Here's the English translation." I handed over the other photocopy.
Abe's sweaty brow furrowed as he read. "Sweet Christ, Bobby, is this what I'm holding the spring issue for? This is about some dame scewing doggie-style while drinking the blood of a headless man. Or did I miss something?"
"Nope. That's about it. Of course there are only a few stanzas in that fragment," I said. "And it's a rough translation."
"I thought Das's work was lyrical and sentimental. Sort of the way you described Tagore's stuff in your article."
"He was. He is. Not sentimental but optimistic." It was the same phrase I'd used many times to defend Tagore. Hell, it was the same phrase I'd used to defend my own work.
"Uh-huh," said Abe. "Optimistic. I like this optimistic part here--'Kama Rati kamé/viparita karé rati.' According to the translator's copy it means--'Maddened by lust, Kama and Rati fuck like dogs.' Sweet. It has a distinctive lilt to it, Bobby. Sort of early Robert Frost-ish."
"It's part of a traditional Bengali song," I said. "Notice how Das had embedded the rhythm of it in the general passage. He shifts from classical Vedic form to folk-Bengali and then back to Vedic. It's a complicated stylistic treatment, even allowing for translation." I shut up. I was just repeating what Morrow had told me, and he had been repeating what one of his "experts" had said. It was very hot in the little room. Through the open windows came the lulling sound of traffic and the somehow reassuring cry of a distant siren. "You're right," I said. "It doesn't sound like Das at all. It's almost impossible to believe that this is from the same man who wrote the Mother Teresa epic. My guess is that Das isn't alive and that this is some sort of scam. I don't know, Abe."
Abe pushed back in his swivel chair, and I thought for a second that he actually was going to remove the cigar stub from his mouth. Instead he scowled, rotated the cigar left and then right, leaned back in his chair, and clasped his stubby fingers behind his neck. "Bobby, did I ever tell you about the time I was in Calcutta?"
"No." I blinked in surprise. Abe had traveled widely as a wire-service reporter before he wrote his first novel, but he rarely talked about those days. After he had accepted my Tagore piece, he idly mentioned that he once had spent nine months with Lord Mountbatten in Burma. His stories about his wire-service days were rare but invariably enjoyable. "Was it during the war?" I asked.
"No. Right after. During the Hindu-Muslim partition riots in '47. Britain was pulling out, carving India into two countries and leaving the two religious groups to slaughter eath other. That was all before your time, wasn't it Roberto?"
"I've read about it, Abe. So you went to Calcutta to report the riots?"
"Nope. People didn't want to read about any more fighting right then. I went to Calcutta because Gandhi...Mohandas, not Indira...Gandhi was going there and we were covering him. Man of Peace, Saint in a Loincloth, the whole schtick. Anyway, I was in Calcutta for about three months." Abe paused and ran a hand through his thinning hair. He seemed at a loss for words. I'd never seen Abe hesitate a second in using language--written, spoken, or shouted. "Bobby," he said at last, "do you know what the word miasma means?"
"A poisonous atmosphere," I said. It nettled me to be quizzed. "As from a swamp. Or any noxious influence. Probably comes from the Greek miainein, meaning 'to pollute.'"
"Yeah," said Abe and rotated his cigar again. He took no notice of my little performance. Abe Bronstein expected his former poetry editor to know his Greek. "Well, the only word that could describe Calcutta to me then...or now... was miasma. I can't even hear one word without thinking of the other."
"It was built on a swamp," I said, still irritated. I wasn't used to hearing this kind of garbage from Abe. It was like having your reliable old plumber suddenly break into a discourse on astrology. "And we'll be going there during the monsoon season, which isn't the most pleasant time of the year, I guess. But I don't think--"
"I wasn't talking about the weather," said Abe. "Although it's the hottest, most humid, most miserable goddamn hellhole I've ever been in. Worse than Burma in '43. Worse than Singapore in typhoon weather. Jesus, it's worse than Washington in August. No, Bobby, I'm talking about the place, goddammit. There was something...something miasmal about that city. I've never been in a place that seemed as mean or shitty, and I've spent time in some of the great sewer cities of the world. Calcutta scared me, Bobby."
I nodded. The heat had caused a headache to start throbbing behind my eyes. "Abe, you've just spent time in the wrong cities," I said lightly. "Try spending a summer in North Philadelphia or on the Southside of Chicago where I grew up. That'll make Calcutta look like Fun City."
"Yeah," said Abe. He wasn't looking at me anymore. "Well, it wasn't just the city. I wanted out of Calcutta so my bureau chief--a poor schmuck who died of cirrhosis of the liver a couple of years later...this jerk gives me an assignment to cover a bridge dedication way out in the boonies of Bengal somewhere. I mean, there wasn't even a railroad line there yet, just this damn bridge connecting one patch of jungle to another across a river about two hundred yards wide and three inches deep. But the bridge had been built with some of the first postwar aid money sent from the States, so I had to go cover the dedication." Abe paused and looked out the window. From somewhere down the street came angry shouts in Spanish. Abe did not seem to hear them. "So anyway, it was pretty dull. The engineers and construction crew had already left, and the dedication was the usual mixture of politics and religion that you always get in India. It was too late to start back by jeep that evening--I was in no hurry to get back to Calcutta, anyway--so I stayed in a little guest house on the edge of the village. It was probably left over from British inspection tours during the Raj. But it was so damn hot that night--one of those times when the sweat won't even drip, it just beads on your skin and hangs in the air--and the mosquitoes were driving me crazy; so sometime after midnight I got up and walked down to the bridge. I smoked a cigarette and headed back. If it hadn't been for the moon I wouldn't have seen it."
Abe took the cigar out of his mouth. He grimaced as if it tasted as foul as it looked. "The kid couldn't have been much more than ten, maybe younger," he said. "He'd been impaled on some iron reinforcement rods sticking up out of the cement abutment on the west side of the bridge. You could tell that he hadn't died right away; that he'd struggled for some time after the rods went through him--"
"He'd been climbing on the new bridge?" I said.
"Yeah, that's what I thought," said Abe. "And that's what the local authorities said at the inquest. But for the life of me I couldn't figure out how he'd managed to hit those rods....He would've had to have jumped way out from the high girders. Then, a couple of weeks later, right before Gandhi broke his fast and the rioting stopped back in Calcutta, I went over to the British consulate there to dig out a copy of Kipling's story 'The Bridge Builders.' You've read it, haven't you?"
"No," I said. I couldn't stand Kipling's prose or poetry.
"You should," said Abe. "Kipling's short fiction is quite good."
"So what's the story?" I asked.
"Well, the story hinges around the fact that at the end of every bridge-building, Bengalis used to have an elaborate religious ceremony."
"That's not unusual, is it?" I said, half guessing the punch line of all of this.
"Not at all," said Abe. "Every event in India calls for some sort of religious ceremony. It's just the way the Bengalis went about it that caused Kipling to write the story." Abe put the cigar back in his mouth and spoke through gritted teeth. "At the end of each bridge construction, they offered up a human sacrifice."
"Right," I said. "Great." I gathered up my photocopies, stuffed them in my briefcase, and rose to leave. "If you remember any more Kipling tales, Abe, be sure to give us a call. Amrita'll get a big kick out of them."
Abe stood up and leaned on his desk. His blunt fingers pressed down on stacks of manuscripts. "Hell, Bobby, I'd just prefer that you weren't going into that--"
"Miasma," I said.
"I'll stay away from new bridges," I said while walking toward the door.
"At least think again about taking Amrita and the baby."
"We're going," I said. "The reservations have been made. We've had our shots. The only question now is whether you want to see Das's stuff if it is Das and if I can secure publication rights. What do you say, Abe?"
Abe nodded again. He threw his cigar into a cluttered ashtray.
"I'll send you a postcard from poolside at the Calcutta Oberoi Grand Hotel," I said, opening the door.
My last sight of Abe was of him standing there with his arm and hand extended, either in a half-wave or some mute gesture of tired resignation.
Copyright 1985 by Dan Simmons
Excerpted from Song of Kali by Simmons, Dan Copyright © 1998 by Simmons, Dan. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Most Helpful Customer Reviews
If you enjoy a thriller/mystery with a touch of supernatural horror (the sort where the supernatural element may be explainable via more scientific methods) then this book is for you. I picked it up after seeing a glowing review from Harlan Ellison, and his review was spot on. Oh...you're probably going to want to read the last quarter or so of the book in one sitting. Plan accordingly. I was up until three AM reading it on a day where I otherwise would have been asleep by 23:00. :)
This book stuck with me for a long time. It was not specifically terrifying while reading, but the overall gloom of despair and hopelessness whether the action took place in India or back in States is undenyable. Dan simmons is a master of storytelling and this is one of his best.
This book stuck with me for a long time after I put it down. An earlier review said that it wasn't scary and left too many unanswered questions - I am fairly certain that person didn't understand it, or maybe just picked up the wrong sort of book. Song of Kali wasn't written to give you a cheap thrill. Rather, it sits inside your head and keeps you awake at night. Sure, there is a scary scene with the monster Kali, but her most terrifying quality isn't what she can do to a person physically - it's what she unleashes on the world and humanity. A very good read for anyone interested in the darker side of humanity.
This was my first book from Dan Simmons. It seemed to get pretty good reviews and I had a few others of his sitting on my shelf, so when I picked up this one, his first, I thought why not start at the beginning with his works. Well I can't say that this is a great book, but I can't say that it's horrible either. I just wasn't moved by it as some others were. Sure he put some good words down on paper, he describes his settings, locations and characters well, but the story just didn't work for me. I think this may have worked better as a short story or novella, but as a full length, the pace was just too slow.If I hadn't heard such great things about Dan, I may stop with this book, but I will continue on and read some of his newer works to see if he's improved. So many seem to love him, I really want to give him a shot.
A fascinating book with superb atmosphere, I feel it suffers a similar fate to the other Simmons' works I've read which is to be ultimately and disatisfyingly vague in its conclusion and explanation of its mystical events. The book presents a fantastic view into the alarmingly dismal world of impoverished Calcutta, but by the time the narrative starts going, there is little time left to fully explore the complex world it establishes of poetry, family, ambition, mystery and India. The book is wrongfully billed on its cover as "the scariest novel ever" and while there are a few fantastic moments of fright, the book is really more of a pensive thriller.
Dan Simmons has become one of my favorite authors, mainly based on The Terror and Drood, both of which I consider exemplars of contemporary English-language prose. It was quite a treat when my spouse presented me with a copy of Song of Kali, which I believe is Simmons' first book. It starts out like a debut novel, but by the end, Simmons' command of the English language as a medium for story development begins to shine through.Simmons does not just write in the English language, but he uses the language itself to further enhance the telling of the story (a technique also used by Kostova in The Historian).This story involves a journalist-cum-poet in his quest to determine if a Hindu poet long thought to be dead is, in fact, still alive and writing poetry in honor of Kali - goddess of evil. Although the treatment tends at times to be uneven, Simmons does effectively develop a sense of foreboding that (in the last 100-or-so pages) becomes extremely effective.Reading this book is like watching the evolution of a master writer from his tentative first steps to his great strides in 300+ pages.Loved every minute of it.
I enjoyed this book, especially the writing. I didn't find it all that horrific though. It seemed to be an updated story of the Thugee, who worship Kali. Although Simmons adds some supernatural touches, they were (are ?) a real sect. There is a really good (though old and out of print) book by John Masters about the Thugee whom the British supposedly wiped out in the 1800s. It is called The Deceivers and is part of the Savage Family series.The other horrific aspect is the way people have to live in Calcutta, and the adjustments and adaptations to what we consider human nature and decency they make to survive. Having spent time in 3rd world countries where is it common to maim family members to make them better beggars (stronger objects of pity), I was not horrified.It was mostly sad, and it showed the typical US person who comes up against the cruel reality that we mostly avoid because of where and when we live.
When new poems from Indian author M. Das -- long thought to be dead -- suddenly appear, "Harper's" magazine send writer Bobby Luzcak to Calcutta to learn more about M. Das, perhaps even to bring some new works home for publication. He takes his wife Amitra along as an interpreter and so she can see her family and introduce them to their baby daughter Victoria. Everything seems to be going according to plan -- until they reach Calcutta and learn that plans and meetings have been changed. He and his family are rushed through the darkened streets to the hotel by a man named Krishna who seems to know more than he's letting on.By day, Calcutta is a very dirty place with muddy streets, a faint stench lingers in the air, and thousands of bodies, cars and bicycles cram into every available space. But at night, the sense of rot and death only hinted at during the light come into full play as Bobby is lead on a for M. Das. In fact, Calcutta seems like a living being, doing whatever she can to confuse and to befuddle Bobby at every turn: from a rundown bar where a secondhand source recounts a fantastic tale about a body -- possibly M. Das -- coming back to life in the presence of the goddess Kali to a mysterious group known as the Kapalikas taking him through the maze-like city, from his meeting with the leprous M. Das to awakening in a dark room, knowing that something is inside with him, but not sure if he can believe what he sees by the flicker of matchlight. And yet, even after all the tragedy and manipulations, after Kali's song of destruction tempts him, Bobby manages to fight back and regain his humanity. Simmons' descriptions of Calcutta, the people, the rituals, are detailed enough to make the reader feel as if he/she were slogging through the trash-filled alley as Bobby tries to escape or packed tight like sardines on the bus at night trying to make it back to the hotel. Yet he doesn't overdo it with them. In particular, the scene in which Bobby is fleeing from some creature or person, and can only see bits and pieces in the weak light from his matches, is effectively scary and filled with tension because like bobby, the reader never confronts the entire creature. For me, that unknown quality makes it that much more terrifying.
what can i say? i didn't expect much from this book, given the hokey cover art and lackluster blurb on the back. however, i was fresh off Carrion Comfort, and already jonesing for more Simmons. somehow, Simmons beautifully combined horror, suspense, magic realism, and fantasy for an engrossing and disturbing tale. most authors' attempts at this meet with sloppiness, with a few exeptions, like China Mieville.my only beef with this book is that the two main characters seemed uni-dimensional and scripted, so i didn't feel myself particularly rooting for either of them. however, the harrowing atmosphere of this book makes up for this shortcoming; the suspense is deliciously near-unbearable. the foreboding will eat you alive. check it out.
One of the best books I have ever read. If you like supernatural horror this is a must read.
This book gave me chills. I have never read anything this horrifying. I think the worst of it is not the supernatural that the book hints at but the actual cruelty of mankind. This is where the horror come in.
REVIEWED: Song of Kali WRITTEN BY: Dan Simmons PUBLISHED: January, 1998 Song of Kali is a well written novel of dark fiction, though hardly “the most frightening book ever written” as heralded across reviews and its book cover. There are actually very few scenes that seemed particularly scary at all. The plot is fair and emotionally-driven, compelling and sad, with good pacing, conflict, etc. And, man!, can this author write! The technical ability of Dan Simmons is extraordinary. However, the book just felt barely “above-average,” rather than fantastic, after closing the final page. The ending is anticlimactic, i.e. dreadful (in terms of boredom)... this story had so much potential to have been greater. The backdrop and circumstances Simmons established could have led to many, many more frightening scenes than he used. All-in-all, a fine read, especially as this is the first novel he ever wrote. Note to reader: His books get much better. Four out of Five stars
Love his books this one was very spooky the Terror was marvellous as well Enjoy
Scary but slow at times